With A Twist
by Shannonigans
Summary: Sydney goes on a mission (surprise surprise), but various things go wrong...
1. Default Chapter

**Title:** With a Twist

**Author:** The Raven Herself

**Summary:** Not entirely sure how to summarise this.  Basically, Sydney goes on a mission to retrieve an ancient and valuable artefact, but things just aren't going her way.  

**Disclaimer:** Don't own a thing.  Well, I own some things, but not much that's used in this story.  I don't own Alias or the characters involved (unfortunately).  I do own the inter-mafia relations operative of negotiable importance however.  Go me.

**When this story is going to start:** Right about… now.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Well, it would have been if the weather would just co-operate with the plot.  It really was just another clear (or as clear as it gets in Los Angeles, which isn't much), slightly warm evening.  The same as the one the night before… or the night before… or the night before.  Perhaps not the night before that though, as a hurricane of unrivalled strength had ripped through the city then, wreaking devastation of the like that hadn't been seen since the week earlier.  In fact, there was little to distinguish this night from any other myriad of inconsequential nights except for one thing.  On this particular night, a meeting took place.

*

"Have you got the merchandise?" asked a sinister voice from the shadows.  The expendable middleman (or, as he preferred to be called, the "inter-mafia relations operative of negotiable importance") took a hesitant step forward, proffering a dark briefcase in front of him.  He opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by the unmistakeable cock of a gun.

"Good."  The gun fired, and the expendable middleman (sorry, inter-mafia relations operative of negotiable importance) knew no more.

*

While that meeting was very important to some people, it wasn't the meeting that _we're_ interested in.  We're interested in another meeting, taking place in a dark, dank, rusty, leaky, unappealing, ugly, negative energy charged Warehouse (note the capital, Warehouse not warehouse.  This was a Warehouse of some importance) on the other side of town.  

*

Agent Michael Vaughn leaned self-consciously against a pile of precariously stacked cartons, trying valiantly (and failing dismally) to express an air of suavity.  The best he managed was he once projected an air of uncomfortable stiffness.  But he only did that once.  One would think, after the amount of practice he'd had, he would be slightly better at it but there you go.  He was still leaning, somewhat awkwardly when the sound of clacking footsteps echoed throughout the warehouse.

One would also think that, in order to be a spy (or intelligence operative… or whatever they're _actually_ called) one should at least be able to walk quietly.  In my opinion it would be a highly valuable skill, right up there with being able to run fast to techno music and look good in neon wigs.  Perhaps Special Agent Sydney Bristow did in fact know how to walk quietly but, given the opportunity, she enjoyed a good stomp.  That would explain a lot.  Anyway, Sydney Bristow walked into the warehouse, coming to a halt in front of Vaughn.  

The pair exchanged Meaningful Looks for several minutes.  They probably thought that their feelings for each other were subtle, which they were in the way that being hit in the head with a brick is subtle.  I could go on for several pages about the feeling underlaying those stares, but it can be summed up with a few simple words: they wanted each other.  Bad.  Now that's been cleared up, can we move along?  Good.

"Sloane wants me to go to Cyprus," said Sydney bluntly, (had the weather been co-operating there would have just been an ominous peal of thunder).  She pushed her hair back behind her ear in a patented gesture and settled herself onto a box of crates opposite that which Vaughn was currently leaning on.  She managed the right stance effortlessly, thus proving that while Vaughn could out frown her any day there was no competition in the looking-cool-while-leaning-on-discarded-boxes stakes.  

Any normal person would have been slightly put out by the lack of greeting, but we must remember the exchange of Meaningful Looks.  After that, this was more like a footnote to a long, intensely romantic conversation (Awww…). Vaughn certainly didn't seem to mind.

"Why?" he asked, proving that while Sydney can be blunt, he can be blunter.   Sydney shifted slightly.

"To retrieve some Rambaldi artefact, why else?" she replied, sounding slightly sarcastic.  All right, more than slightly.  The only missions Sydney went on were to retrieve some Rambaldi artefact.  Oh, and the ones where she went to rescue someone…but they only needed rescuing due to the consequences of retrieving some Rambaldi artefact.  Vaughn frowned, but that was no different to his normal expression.

"What kind of artefact?" he asked, crossing his right leg over his left.  Sydney straightened her jacket.

"Apparent Rambaldi made a spinning wheel," she began to explain.  Vaughn listened intently.  "Sloane wants me to try and obtain it.  Failing that, he wants me to get a sample of the thread it produces."  Vaughn leaned back, looking contemplative.  He could have been pondering a possible counter mission, or he could have been deciding what to make for dinner that night.  You choose. 

"We'll contact you with your counter-mission," he said stoically, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that counter-missions were always variations on the theme of "attach this doohickey to stuff".  Sometimes she had to perform a switch, but only of information obtained by… you guessed it, attaching a doohickey to stuff.  Subtle.

"Right," Sydney trailed off.  More Meaningful Looks were exchanged.  "Well…"

"Yes…" said Vaughn, shifting uncomfortably.  "Er…"

"Um… bye then," Sydney offered tentatively.  Vaughn smiled brightly.  This was familiar ground.

"Bye," he said, sounding slightly relieved.  Sydney shot him yet another Meaningful Look (this one proclaiming her tragedy that they couldn't be together despite the fact that they were _clearly_ made for each other) and stomped back to her car.  Vaughn straightened up, taking a few steps away from the crates and stretching his back.

"Damn that's uncomfortable…" he murmured, staggering over to his car (what's that?  Government car?  Oh, my neck…) and climbing into the front seat.  He stared at his hands for a minute, then started the engine and drove off.

*

"This is the Contrivance building," began Arvin Sloane the following morning, kicking off the meeting with all the usual formality and idle chit-chat.  A picture of a bland grey building filled the handy-dandy little screen in front of Sydney's chair, and she studied it intently.  "Their security is very tight, however it relies too much on video surveillance.  Sydney, you are going to incapacitate those cameras," he said, directing the last at Sydney.  Sydney frowned.

"How?" she asked simply, still examining her little screen intently.  The faint sounds of the Young and the Restless could be heard emanating from her screen if one strained their ears.  Luckily, no one would suspect Sydney of watching soap operas during a briefing.  She had gotten away with the act for years.

"That's for Marshall to explain.  Marshall?" he said, turning and facing an empty chair.  There was a pregnant pause, then…

"Where's Marshall?!" Sloane exploded, showing all the patience and dignity of a petulant two year old.  Sydney shrugged.

"Perhaps he forgot?" mused Sark; oblivious to the glare Sloane shot him.  The room fell silent, the only sound being the noises of someone in a great hurry clanking down the hallway outside.

Marshall, the lovable socially inept gadget dude, bounded into the conference room, practically wetting himself with excitement.  Had he been a dog, he would have been one of those little puppies with more energy than sense.  You know, the ones that run all through the house, peeing on the drop of a hat and jumping up all over you so they can lick your face.  Those puppies.  That was Marshall.  He skidded to a halt in front of his chair and smiled manically at the assembled people.  

Sloane gave him a Look (one that said he knew exactly what kind of puppy he was, and that if he wasn't careful he was going to be sent to obedience school).  Marshall wilted a little, dropping something on the table.  He made a few ta-da gestures for good measure.  Sydney, Jack, Sloane and Sark (Hey, Jack's the only one whose name doesn't start with an 's'… interesting…).   

"What is it?" Sark asked after a few minutes.  Marshall's face fell.

"Can't you tell?" he asked reproachfully.  Sark stared at the object a little longer.

"Is it some new kitchen appliance?" he ventured finally.  Marshall shook his head.  Sark frowned.  "Then I have no idea what it could possibly be."  Marshall took a deep breath, and all present prepared themselves (readied themselves for some heavy duty filtering of the babble to find the actual point).

"I was watching this show about weather- you know, because I can have some really good ideas when watching those- anyway, so I was watching it and I figured out how to make this- it's a filter for the cameras," he explained.  "Basically you just stick it over the camera like so," he held the device up over his eyes, "and ta-da!  I can't see any of you!"  He put the filter back down again.  "You know how they make weather people wear a certain colour so they don't blend into the screen?  This is like that, only in reverse."

Sark picked up the device gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, looking at it from every angle.  "Interesting…" he commented, placing it gently back on the table.  Marshall grinned enthusiastically.

"I could make you one too," he started; faltering at the look on Sloane's face, "Though maybe I'd better not…" he finished inanely.  Sydney examined the filter gingerly.

"You'll fit the filter over the security cameras," Sloane continued, fiddling with his little PowerPoint display thing.  A giant message box opened on all the little screens reading "This program has performed an illegal operation."  Sloane hissed under his breath.

"Goddamn windows," Jack spat vehemently at his screen, smashing it with his clenched fist for good measure.  Needless to say, (though I'll say it anyway), it didn't help.  The little screens shut down completely.  Sloane sighed in exasperation.

"So, yeah, you'll retrieve the spinning wheel.  You leave tonight," he finished hurriedly.  Sydney nodded and left.

**Author's Notes:**

**I can explain where this all came from- I was reading a Terry Pratchett book (I can't remember which one), when I thought "wouldn't it be fun to write an Alias story in this style?"  Knowing that I could never emulate Terry Pratchett's masterful writing style, I decided to give it a go anyway.  So here it is.  Please tell me whether this has prospects, or is such a load of tripe that there are several government orders demanding that I never be allowed near a computer again.  It would be much appreciated.**


	2. Default Chapter Redux

**Disclaimer:** I would like to declare that I do not own anything to do with Alias, except the videos that I taped the episodes onto.  Actually, I'm not even sure if I own those either, they might be my parents'.

SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

A plane flew across the jet-black sky; it's lights the only signs of its presence.  That, and the fire streaming out of one of the engines.  The plane began a graceful dive into the ocean.  It seemed to take an eternity to fall, sending up an explosion of water as it broke the surface.  

It's a good thing that Sydney wasn't on that plane.

About 50 miles north of the crash site, another plane drifted across the sky in a way that looked completely impossible.  The fact that planes actually stay in the air (with the exception of the one that just crashed) has always confused me.  I've been told the theory behind it many a time, but I still can't grasp how a glorified tin can stays aloft.  Best not to think about it.  Anyway…

Sydney leaned back into the comfortable headrest of her business class seat and sighed.  Several businessmen seriously lacking in social lives had already attempted conversation with her.  Sydney might have been interested if they hadn't been talking about tax fraud and company politics.  These were the kinds of people who had the current figures from the stock market constantly displaying in the top corner of the laptop they would have surgically grafted to their hands if it were possible.  Sad is not a strong enough word.  She had forced a smile and pointedly shoved a set of headphones into her ears.  

She mentally replayed her meeting with Vaughn, the one where he explained her counter-mission.  If this was a TV show, there would a convenient fading out, coupled with a flashback scene.

That can be arranged.

*

It was another dark and stormy night.  Okay, maybe it was just dark.  Close enough.  Anyway, instead of going out and having fun, like any _normal_ person would, Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn were once again leaning against the crates in an abandoned warehouse.  Maybe that would count as "having fun" to a really pathetic person, but it'd be close.  Vaughn reached into his jacket pocket and handed Sydney a small box.  Sydney took it, studied it for a minute, then pulled it open.

Inside was a glittering diamond ring.  Sydney's lower lip trembled.  "Michael, I…" she started.  Vaughn's eyes widened, and he snatched the box back off her.  

"Sorry," he said, snapping it closed and shoving it back in his pocket.  He pulled out an identical box from a different pocket.  "Wrong pocket," he offered as explanation, handing the second box over.  Sydney took it absently, still looking at Vaughn. 

"Why are you carrying around a diamond ring?" she asked suspiciously.  Vaughn shifted his feet and looked uncomfortable.  Well, more so than usual.

"I don't really know," he said sheepishly, looking at his feet.  "I must have taken the wrong jacket… you know everyone's suit looks the same!"  Sydney's eyes narrowed, but she kept quiet.  She turned the new box over in her hands.

"What is it?" she asked.  Vaughn shrugged.

"A doohickey," he said, looking bored.  "You attach it to stuff.  Or, in this case, stick stuff in it."  Sydney nodded.

"I can do that," she said, pocketing the box.  She turned on her heel and stalked off towards her car.  Vaughn sent some longing (and possibly Meaningful) Looks at her retreating back.

*

The flight attendant walked down the aisle next to Sydney's chair, pushing a drinks cart in front of her.  The cart crashed painfully into Sydney's arm.  Sydney glared.

"I'm sorry," said the flight attendant in a bland voice that clearly showed that she wasn't.  She flounced off down the aisle, muttering audibly using words like "arrogant" and "conceited".  Sydney glared at her retreating back, and grinned in vicious pleasure when the flight attendant tripped.  Karma makes the world go round…

The plane landed without a hitch, and Sydney gathered her bag.  She walked confidently out of the airport and to the waiting car.  Next stop- the Contrivance building.

*

I never understand how this works.  One would think that when you're undercover, you should be _inconspicuous_.  So I'll never understand why Sydney chose to wear a dress that had a split practically up to her neck and a neckline that would have reached her navel.  Subtle.  Top it all off with a bright red wig, and she'll blend right in.  Sydney flounced dramatically into the party and walked right out the back door.  No one noticed a thing.  Perhaps the bright pink elephant tap dancing on the roof next door had something to do with that.  Anyway…

Sydney walked up to the video camera and carefully fitted the filter on it.  It continued to pan around the room merrily, completely oblivious.  At least, Sydney hoped it was completely oblivious.  Things could be bad if it wasn't.

Very bad.

Best not to think about that either.  Where were we….?  Oh yes.  Sydney was stalking down the corridor.  She paused in front of a doorway, pulling a lock pick from her necklace of detachable thingummyjigs and inserted it carefully into the lock.  She tweaked the pick a little, smiling slightly at the click.

By the way, it was a click of the lock unlocking, not of a gun cocking or anything like that.  I doubt that Sydney would smile at that.

The door swung open, revealing a room of extremely poor taste.  As if you would mix 18th century classique with shabby chic!  It just goes against all interior-decorating laws!  Imbeciles.  Anyway, in the middle of the room, clashing uncomfortably with the antique furniture (complete with those little curvy legs), was a large spinning wheel.

Large, like the Statue of Liberty is large.

An annoying fact about Rambaldi is that he failed to include accurate scales in the diagrams of his creations, so when the artisan came to construct it (for Rambaldi's were _artist's_ hands, not for idle labour), the poor bugger didn't know whether to make it three inches tall or three feet tall.  So he decided to err on the side of caution, and build everything huge.  But I digress…

So the spinning wheel was obviously too big to fit in Sydney's classy yet affordable, decorative yet practical Gucci handbag.  Time for plan two- taking a sample of the thread.  Only one problem- how does one use a spinning wheel?

I don't know how to.  Let's face it, it's not exactly a common skill, nor is it a useful beer trick.  "Oh, I can tie a cherry stem into a knot in my mouth.  What can you do?"  "I can use a spinning wheel."  Doesn't really work.  So it's completely understandable that Sydney wouldn't know how to use one either.

Luckily for her, there was a plot device box of samples waiting, unlocked, on the table.  Sydney snapped on a pair of latex gloves and carefully extracted a single sample.  She laid it gently into the CIA box and snapped the box closed.  Then she grabbed another thread, dunked it repeatedly into the glass of wine someone had left on the table, threw it on the floor and ground her stiletto heel onto it for good measure.  Then she snatched it off the ground, threw it haphazardly into the SD-6 box, snapped shut the lid, and dropped both boxes back into her handbag.  She gave her earring a slight twist.

"Dixon?  I'm done," she said to an apparently empty room.  Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.  Before we can question Sydney's sanity however, a tinny voice came back, emanating from the diamante earring in Sydney's left earlobe.

"Good work Bluebird.  I'll be waiting at the extraction point."

Sydney walked back out through the door, making care to lock it again behind her.  She strode past the security cameras, plucked the filter from the lens and kept on walking.  The little red LED on the camera blinked on, revealing to the casual observer that the surveillance system had never actually been turned on.  We wont tell Sydney that though.  

A few hours later Sydney was back on the plane, flying over the ocean, still completely unaware of the catastrophic accident a couple miles south.

**Author's Note:******

**I don't know whether this chapter was as funny as the first one, but hey, you get that.  Variety is the spice of life, and all that crap.  I should probably mention here that I am in the midst of my final exams, and the fact that I've actually had the time to write anything is a notable event.**

**Thanks for all the reviews- I'm so stoked that everyone likes this!  I actually have a plotline in here- a serious one too- and some of the major points have been revealed already.  So there you go.  Hopefully that piqued your interest.**


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